


Blood Feud

by Capucine



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, F/M, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-New 52
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5725276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capucine/pseuds/Capucine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dick nearly kills Tim, and Superman ends up involved, it's like a spark on straw for the relations between Superman's family and the Bats. Because Tim is practically part of the Kent family, given that he is Kon's boyfriend, and Kon is certain that Tim is in danger, things get tense fast.</p><p>And Bruce does not appreciate his turf being infringed on, or especially his son kept from him.</p><p>Will it tear the superhero community apart? Or will Tim be able to set it right--if he recovers?</p><p>And can Dick ever forgive himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! I thought y'all might like it--the feud doesn't start in this chapter.

The figure was black-cloaked, blurry, but Dick knew he had to fight it.

It knew where Damian was. It kept murmuring, words weirdly disjointed, "I know...your brother...killing...broke...arm...might die...hurt you..."

The words were almost like a computer, as Dick smashed into it again.

It wasn't that great at fighting, seemed primarily defensive. Seemed intent on blocking him, taunting him the entire time with strange words. He could see a sort of flash of red eyes on its strange, dark form, and he had to defeat it to find Damian--he could not lose him again.

It staggered back as he slammed into its collarbone, and he was sure he heard a crunch--good. Good, maybe that would put it down.

His fear and anger seemed to race icy-hot in his veins--Damian had been taken. Damian was not okay--yes, he was an assassin and probably had been through more pain than anyone had a right to put a child through, but he was still a child, and goddamnit, Dick would do anything to protect him.

He shoved his palm into the figure's nose--another crunch. He thought he caught a sort of gurk sound from it, almost a choking noise--good. Good, this bastard deserved to go down.

It fell. It was pushing up against the ground, only one hand, he'd broken its collarbone. Its face seemed to blur a little, still a black mess, red eyes, but now Dick thought he could hear labored, pained breathing. Like it was choking a bit on its own blood.

It was probably human, he realized--but that didn't matter. It had Damian, knew where he was--he had to get it to tell him. He seized the front of its shirt, a black fabric that also had a body armor underneath, not unlike his own.

It gurgled a little, not quite the fully-choking sound, still perfectly able to tell him where the hell his little brother was. 

"Where is Robin?" Dick snarled, and he noted the figure was around five and half feet tall, kind of muscular.

"...brother...dying...kill..." was all he could get, strangely disjointed.

But goddamnit, Damian was in danger, and like hell Dick was going to be patient or put up with this bullshit. He pressed the figure's head down against the ground, and put his foot on the broken collarbone. He could feel the figure's fingers rather frantically pulling at his foot, ankle, and he pressed--it screamed.

"Where the fuck is Robin?" he snapped at it.

"...die...brother...Robin..." the figure seemed to say, words a bit weird--like the emotion wasn't as clear as before. Sort of like when the sound was messed up on a tape or recording.

He could feel it struggling beneath his foot. He pressed harder, and it screamed again.

"Robin. If you don't tell me where he is, you will regret it!" Dick snapped at the figure.

But the figure was incoherent at that point. So, Dick leaned down, and pried aside the mask, ignoring the figure crying out again. Its face was strangely unrecognizable--maybe it had a concealer kind of thing going on. He'd heard of such technologies. He pressed a thumb against its eye, feeling the trembling, shut eyelid, how delicate the eyeball was. He pressed a little hard, and he thought he could hear a fearful sound from the figure.

"Robin. Or you lose your eye."

Hands reached up to pull away his hand, shaking, and so he slammed one down and ground on the wrist with his heel--rewarded with a snap. The other jerked out, slamming against the floor in what Dick recognized as a reaction to agony. Good. That should teach this bastard to kidnap Damian.

"...know...broken...tricked..."

"I don't care _how_ you caught him," Dick snarled, putting pressure on the eyeball. The hand not under his heel snapped up, pulling rather feebly at his wrist. He could almost feel frantic breaths against his wrist.

And then there was a white flash of pain in his skull, and he was sprawling forward, over the figure's head, as he heard Jason-- _what the hell was Jason doing here?_ \--shout, in clear enunciation, "You fucking bastard, leave him the fuck alone!"

It was like his head was half foggy and half not, because he could still see the murky figure, but he could also very clearly see Red Hood, helmet glinting just a bit in the dim light. He had a gun pointed at him. "Don't think I won't shoot! I like him better!"

How in god's name could Jason like a mysterious assailant better than Dick? How could he like someone who'd kidnapped Damian? "He has Damian! Jason, stop, you're crazy from--"

Jason was shaking his head, coming closer to Dick while the gun was trained on him. "Hold the fuck still, apparently you _are_ the crazy one here." He jabbed him with a needle, while Dick protested, eyeing the gun.

"No, Jason, he's going to get away, damnit, we need to save--"

The murkiness cleared.

And there was Red Robin, beaten within an inch of his life, mask ripped off his face (taking bits of skin with it), breathing hard, wrist bent just a titch, his nose very broken, blood running down his face from it, and the angle he was lying at--yeah, that collarbone was broken. Other injuries were evident, and he just looked very much shattered.

"Oh god," Dick breathed. How--why had he been so sure--?

Jason had already moved back to Tim, checking him for injuries. Tim started to move, making a sound that was both pained and possibly fearful, and Jason assured him, "Timbers, it's me--don't worry, Fratricide over there is down for the count. And if he's not, I'll shoot him."

"I'm--I'm not going to hurt him--" Dick managed, before he threw up.

He had basically beaten Tim nearly to death--broken bones, could have killed him with the broken nose strike, had nearly _blinded_ him.

"Oh god," he murmured.

He was about to ask about Damian, if he had even been taken, what kind of neurotoxin or other influence he'd been under, when he heard the boy's voice.

"Nightwing!" Damian jumped onto the scene, dropping by his side with a scowl. "Are you unharmed?"

"Y-yeah..." Dick managed. Why the fuck was he unharmed? He wasn't _that_ much better than Tim...

"Well, I would expect that," Damian said, the undertones of 'Tim is the weakest' there.

But Tim wasn't--he could have fought him to win, instead of--of to _stall_ or whatever he was doing. He could have hurt him seriously, even if it wasn't an easy win by any means.

"Stop being an ass," Jason murmured, apparently getting Tim up to sitting so he wasn't drowning in blood. "Goddamn, you broke both of his fucking arms. Don't worry, I got it--stop moving, Tim, just breathe."

He could hear Tim's noisy breaths, and he could see Jason rather heavily supporting his back.

Damian was frowning very deeply, mouth a tight pinch. "What happened? Wasn't Drake the one who was hit?"

"Well, _apparently_ not, cause I don't think Nightwhack over there normally tries to blind people when he's trying to calm them down," Jason said a bit sharply, "Fuck, you got his goddamn collarbone?" Jason was making a face at the peeled back upper part of Tim's suit, and Dick could see the enormous bruise there--more than a bruise, really. It was purple and hideous and huge.

"But--but--what?" Dick managed to collect himself. "Why didn't I know it was Red Robin? What did I get 'hit' by?"

He felt strangely, vividly awake.

"It's a telepathic psychological thing, kay? I flooded your system with dopamine, I think--I didn't listen much to the explanation when I heard Red Robin screaming, kay?" Jason was wiping up Tim's face a bit, careful not to block his breathing, probably to assess the damage. "Hey, come on, look at me, you're okay. Blink twice if you know who I am."

"We thought Drake got hit. He messaged us unclearly," Damian said a bit testily.

"But I thought you were in danger!" Dick finally said, looking to Damian with confusion.

Damian's brow clearly crinkled in confusion under the mask. "What? Why? Dick, we were pursuing a group of telepathic mercenaries--who got away, by the way. Well, not _all_ of them, but two are two too many, in any case."

It was flooding back to Dick now. He could see the devices on all three of his siblings' heads--telepathic blockers. His hand went up to his head--no blocker. And one across the room was smashed.

But wait--that one wasn't his. It was Tim's.

And that was about when Dick realized what had happened.

Tim was wearing his. He could vaguely recall reassuring Tim his mental walls were stronger, that he would be able to fight a telepathic presence better, and clipping it on his protesting brother's head.

And fuck. Fuck, he hadn't been strong enough at all.

"Hey! Hey, don't you fucking dare--Shit, he's going into shock! Nightwing, damnit, get over here, we need to get him out!"

Dick jumped up at Jason's words, and could see that Tim was not exactly with them. Internal bleeding--and external bleeding, most of which Jason had stopped up, but as Tim's chest seemed to spasm for oxygen and his eyes were mostly shut, mostly rolled up in his head, Dick could see that this was very, very bad.

They got him between them, and carried him towards the Batmobile--but it was a distance, and Dick was starting to realize, with frantic panic, that this wasn't going to work--that they could never get the internal bleeding treated fast enough.

He didn't quite hear Damian shouting, but it sort of registered.

It definitely registered what Damian was doing when Superman himself showed up, there in the blink of an eye. "I've got him."

They handed him off without question, and then, in a blur of red and blue, he was gone.

Jason and Dick stared at Damian. He had very much broken an unspoken rule: no metas involved in Bat business.

Damian glared back. "What? Would you rather he died?"

Dick shook his head slowly. But this was going to be messy, regardless of what happened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conner sees Tim--and is determined to protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortish chapter, but sets things up. A bit hurt/comfort or fluffish, I guess.

Conner had never seen Tim like this. Hurt, yes. In distress, yes.

But he was _destroyed_ , and as he was worked on at the Justice League medical center, he could see the way Tim just lay there, still, like he was dead.

They'd let him in after they'd stopped the internal bleeding--bandaged him up. They had to be careful, Conner knew, even as his heart thumped painfully in his chest--if Tim got an infection in this state, he would _die_.

He watched his boyfriend in his unconsciousness, small and swathed in bandages and hospital gown and sheets. He wanted to pick him up and hold him close, but Tim was way too hurt, too fragile right now to risk moving.

He sat by the bed, fingers gently curled in Tim's limp ones. He felt like ice was running through his brain--a sort of chilly feeling, offset by the heat of his brain. Tim's fingers were ice cold too.

He wanted to badly hurt whoever had done this to his boyfriend--taken him from a capable, leaderly mortal to this tiny, broken ghost.

No, he wasn't gone--but it felt almost like he was. Like he was a shell. Conner's heart throbbed painfully at the thought, and god, he would give up all his goddamn powers just to be a healer right now--to instantly take it away. To save Tim.

Suddenly, Tim's fingers twitched, like he'd been returned after a visit to the afterlife, and his mouth opened in a wordless gasp.

"Tim...?"

The boy, the one who Conner loved, started to move--violently, frantically, fighting the bandages and the IV and trying to get up with a strangled sound escaping from his throat.

Conner was up immediately, trying to hold Tim down without hurting him, trying to soothe him. "Hey, hey, Tim, it's okay, it's me! You're safe! Stop, please!"

Tim was sending slurred, frightened words out of his mouth, eyes seeming not entirely aware where he was. They were wide with terror, and he was feebly fighting his sheets. The cast that held his collar bone in place.

The words that Conner heard, however, chilled him to the bone. They were, most clearly, "Dick," "Stop," and "Please." He gently smoothed down Tim's hair, even as it felt like he'd broken out in a sweat, and kissed his forehead. 

"It's me, babe. It's me. Please, calm down, I don't want you to hurt yourself--It's Conner, not--Not Dick."

And the way Tim reacted confirmed the dark thoughts in Conner's head. Tim calmed, seeming to see him, still sort of breathing hard (as hard as he could in his state) the fear in his eyes, but also a question as he stared into Conner's: Am I safe? Is he gone?

Conner again wanted to clutch Tim to his chest. He had never seen him so afraid in his life, never so broken looking. "You're safe, I promise. You're safe. Dick's not gonna hurt you. He's like hundreds of miles away. He can't get to you."

The tears just started rolling down Tim's face, and his weak, good hand grasped at Conner's arm, seeming to calm while still being quite upset. It just wasn't a panic anymore. 

Conner leaned in, kissing Tim--first on the lips, then on each cheek. He pressed his cheek against his, holding his good hand with his own, and pressing the other against the side of his head. "It's okay, babe. I got you."

He could feel Tim's face seem to quiver, as his lips moved, as he tried to speak. His boyfriend gave up on speaking quickly, just pressing his cheek a bit harder against Conner's.

It felt like someone had just cracked open Conner's sternum and jabbed his heart. 

He had never wanted to hurt someone more--nor hold his boyfriend more tightly. And he didn't think he could do either.

"How is he?" Clark, his sort of dad, stood in the doorway. Well, brother was more accurate, he supposed. Clones and all that made things complicated.

He wouldn't be surprised if the man had heard Tim's heart rate quicken like he had--but had obviously trusted him to handle it.

Clark must have expected just sadness in Conner's eyes--but Conner could feel the burning rage in them as he turned to look at Clark. The way tears threatened to spill over, the way he just wanted to hold Tim and protect him and shoot anyone with his eye lasers who dared come close.

"I know who hurt him."

Clark looked confused. "One of Batman's enemies--"

"Unless someone has suddenly changed sides, nope," Conner said, a bit more sharply than he intended, and he could feel Tim's fingers grasp at his arm again. His face was so swollen, but those eyes were Tim--so blue. Looking at him with such fear--not because of him. Because he still feared being attacked again. Conner met his boyfriend's eyes, trying so hard not to just show pain, but to show he loved him and he was safe. "It's okay. He can't hurt you here. I promise."

Conner could practically feel Clark's eyes on him, worried as hell. He said, too quietly for Tim to hear, "It was Dick. Nightwing. He beat him like this."

Clark hid his surprise, and if Tim wasn't already affected by drugs and pain, Conner would have thought it would be too obvious for the detective. But Tim's eyes were closed right now anyway.

Clark responded, "You're sure? Completely sure?"

"He came to begging Dick to stop. Once I told him that Dick wasn't here, that it was me and I would keep him safe, he calmed down. Clark, Dick did this."

Clark's brow crinkled. He frowned down at his hands, and murmured back to Conner, "Damian was the one to call me. Dick and Jason were moving him. I didn't get the chance to ask what happened--I only caught that Tim was...near death."

Conner pressed his cheek against Tim's again, avoiding hurting the swollen mess that was his nose. It would be properly splinted in a bit, when the swelling went down. "Please...keep them away. Keep all of them away."

He could hear Clark's sigh. "Until we know the full story..."

"Until we know, we can't take chances," Conner fought to keep from growling, "This--Tim is the most important person in the world to me, Clark. I _can't_ take a risk with him. Not like this. Not when he can't defend himself."

He knew Clark was reluctant. Him and Batman were sort of friends--the kind that could quickly turn into enemies. But Clark nodded finally. "For now. Until we understand what happened for certain."

"Thank you." Conner couldn't conjure up more gratitude in his voice--it was felt like he was being choked, just a bit. It felt like both relief and pain.

Clark sent him a sad look, he could feel it on the back of his head. "Get better soon, Tim," he said, at normal volume. "We're here for you."

Conner couldn't have known the chain reaction he would set off. He couldn't have known the series of things that would make it bigger than it had to be.

For now, all he cared about was Tim--and keeping him safe.

Fuck Batman, for all he cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, yeah. I haven't written a gazillion M/M relationships, so let me know how I did! I was shooting for realistic-ish rather than yaoi kinda stereotypes, I guess. :I
> 
> Next chapter should be longer!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce discovers that he is being blocked from even knowing about Red Robin's condition. This doesn't sit well with him--at all.

The report had not been satisfactory to Bruce.

Dick had been unable to give a clear one, despite his many years of crime-fighting, and Jason (who was sort of cooperating) and Damian could only give so many details.

"I almost killed him," Dick kept murmuring.

Because, yes, they had gotten the news from the watchtower that Tim was alive.

But that was it.

"Go over it again," Bruce said sternly. He wouldn't push this hard maybe if Clark hadn't denied him access to the watchtower with no explanation, just a look in his eyes that said, 'This is for the best for now.'

How Clark could decide he knew what was best for Red Robin, Bruce wasn't sure--and was frothing over it internally.

"I--I...I don't know. I _think_ that his blocker broke, and I gave him mine--then, I...I beat the living hell out of him. I thought he was something else, and that they had Damian! Oh god, I almost killed him..."

"Why would you assume it would be better for you to be without your blocker, as compared to Tim? Why didn't one of you leave the scene immediately? Why wasn't backup immediately called? What precisely did you see in place of Tim--and how did you not recognize his fighting style? How could you not know you were fighting your own brother?"

Bruce's voice had gotten a touch sharp, and Dick winced.

He didn't seem to have an explanation for that.

Damian was stewing off to the side, sitting on a railing. He had a sharp pout on his face, looking into the depths of the cave with anger in his eyes.

Jason, on the other hand, said, "Yeah, fucking hell, Dick--I heard him begging from like two rooms away before you fucking mashed in his collarbone and shit." Jason's eyes narrowed angrily, as he looked down at the floor. "He sounded terrified."

Dick looked like he might throw up.

Again.

His eldest son took a deep breath through his mouth, and murmured, "I didn't know. I just...didn't."

"You should know." Damian's pronouncement sounded like a smoldering ember. "You should, because you almost killed him. That's not something that people just forget."

It was unclear if Damian was angry on Tim's behalf or not.

Dick let out a groan, holding his head in his hands. "Look, just let me see him--I need to explain, I need to--"

"We've been denied access," Bruce said, a touch more curtly than he intended. "I need you to be able to give a clear story."

"Denied access? Holy shit, they're pissed at you, huh? I guess the JL has a soft spot for Tim--and not crazy people." Jason's words were incendiary, intending to produce a reaction. He was certainly already denied access to the watchtower, so it was hardly directed at him.

"That's enough, Jason," Bruce said sternly.

"Oh god," Dick breathed out, gripping his head tighter. "He knows I didn't--that I wouldn't have--"

"You did," Damian pointed out.

"He seemed to know you were under mind control, I think," Jason said, though his brow crinkled. "I think."

Bruce sighed. "He might not have."

They all three looked at him sharply. 

"He might have explained it to you--I don't know. But those devices are programmed for each of you individually. Yours would have given him some protection--but it wouldn't have been perfect. So, we don't know what state of mind he was in--or is still in."

He could see the respective looks of horror on each of their faces--Dick's heavily apparent, like he might vomit again, Jason's with a touch of fury, and Damian's well-concealed and muted.

"Well, fuck--fuck, that's just--that's wonderful," Jason said, glaring at Dick. 

Dick blanched. "I'm sorry. I didn't--"

"You didn't think," Bruce sighed, "You were trying to protect him, I know."

He thought they could get it cleared up, in any case. An explanation to the League should set it right fairly fast, and if Tim was still experienced telepathic manipulation, he could get him the antidote.

It was a matter that would be highly traumatic to Tim, as could be expected--but at least the antidote would help to clear some of it. Bruce hoped that Tim would be all right, but he also knew his son was fairly tough.

He dialed again (dialing being more of a word to mean pushing a single 'button' on a computer) and got the League tower. Clark Kent himself answered, as if he'd known it was him. Superman frowned on the screen.

"Yes, Batman?"

"I would like a status report on Red Robin. We have a beginning of a report on the incident here that can be sent up--more work will be done to--"

"I can't do that. You can send the report, but I'm not talking to you about him," Superman said, a touch bluntly. "I'm sorry," he added, almost like he couldn't help it.

"Superman, Red Robin is on my team, and as such--"

"I'm sorry. His details are being kept to him and a select few right now," Superman responded, a fairly professional tone there. Like he had to distance himself a little.

Bruce clenched his teeth. "This is my _son_. You will send me the status report, and clear up the denied access--"

"I won't. Not until we're sure," Superman responded, a frown still prominent.

"Please," Dick spoke up, "I need to see him. He needs to know I didn't want to hurt him."

Something flashed in Superman's eyes. Something was confirmed. "Send the report. Give the full one as soon as you can."

And it cut off.

"Stupid Kryptonian," Damian murmured, throwing a throwing knife straight into a target--and not an item that wasn't suited for that, which was an improvement.

Bruce slammed his fists onto the desk, a rage welling up inside him. How dare they keep Red Robin from him? He took a deep breath--he would let things cool for a few more hours, and then speak to them again.

If not, he was finding a way up into that tower.

He was the designer and commissioner of it--like hell they could keep him out.

Dick seemed to be sinking quickly into sorrow, a sort of despair across his features. This was the man who had literally beaten the Joker to death when he thought he'd killed Tim--to have nearly killed him himself was probably an agony to him.

"You should talk to Barbara," Bruce said, knowing that sometimes Dick had strong feelings that he himself couldn't deal with--pointing him to someone who could was the best he could do, sometimes.

Dick nodded mutely, face buried in his hands.

Jason didn't say anything, but was clearly glaring at the wall with venom. Like he wanted to fight somebody, anybody that would make him feel like he was making things right again. It was always that way with Jason, it seemed.

Damian got up sharply, and stalked over to the targets. A lot of throwing knives and other such weapons would be embedded in there before he was done, Bruce was sure.

And Bruce? He was going to review the security measures of the tower, and how to get in should he need to--though that would be an undertaking, given its location.

Like hell he was going to leave his son alone up there, without any knowledge of what was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A titch shorter than I would have liked it to be, but I hope you liked it! I wanted to update this story badly.
> 
> Also, poor Timmers. DX


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark's point of view--and his dogged insistence that Tim be protected, like any other kid.

Conner was by Tim’s bedside, and Clark could hear the human teen’s heartbeat pick up its pace every so often, to frantic levels, until Conner brought him back.

The boy was still semi-incoherent, and definitely frightened and traumatized. 

Clark had never been all that close to Tim, especially in comparison to Dick. This hurt a lot, but even Batman had to understand that they needed to do the right thing here, what would make Tim feel safe and what he would do if the presumed attacker was anyone else. If the victim was anyone else too.

He had to know what was going on, and as much as it hurt, he couldn’t let his affection for Dick influence him. The report would probably clear things up quickly—if they ever got around to sending it. It had been three hours since the tense message, confrontation, he supposed.

It should have been sent by now.

But perhaps they were finishing the whole thing first. Perhaps they understood Tim was a minor and he had to know before he could conscionably allow access. Had to know there wasn’t something crazy going on.

He figured there was probably an explanation. That Bruce would provide it, and maybe be angry with him for a bit, maybe grudgingly acknowledge that it was the morally sound move to make—but it would be solved, either way. Then they could put it to rest, and Tim could be with his family and heal.

“Clark.”

The tone was slightly urgent, as Conner called him. He was quiet enough that no one would pick up on it.

Clark joined them, walking slow so as not to startle Tim. The boy’s blue eyes were on him, slightly hazy from the pain meds, but seemingly aware—recognizing him. “Hello, Tim. How are you feeling?”

Tim’s tongue sounded like it was heavy in his mouth, and his voice was a touch stuffed sounding—given that his nose was broken, it made sense. “’m in the watchtower.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Yeah…” Tim kind of sighed, blinking rather slowly. “It kinda hurts.”

“That’s because we have you on enough morphine to treat an elephant,” Conner said, a mix of affection, humor, and sadness in his voice.

“You’re the best, babe,” Tim said rather unabashedly.

“I try to be a good dealer,” Conner said, gently moving Tim’s hair back from his face. 

“Tim, do you remember what happened?”

Clark’s words seemed to confuse Tim, and the boy responded, “Just now? You came in and said—“

“No, not just now, Tim. I mean to land you in here. How you got hurt.” Clark could hear Tim’s heart rate pick up, and he knew he remembered.

Tim’s eyes darted about the room, and he murmured, obviously trying—and failing—to keep near hysteria out of his voice. “Dick’s not coming, is he? Is he here? Is he outside?”

“No, babe, he’s not here—and he’s not coming,” Conner promised firmly, holding Tim’s hand and obviously fighting to keep the fury off of his face. His blue eyes were near blazing—but also full of pain for Tim.

And Clark hoped very strongly he was making the right decision. Because there was no doubt Tim’s fear was real, but he was also worried about what it might make him have to do. Especially if he got no help from Bruce or anyone in the Bat Family.

But Tim calmed, and wet his cracked lips just a bit. “I…I remember. We were…we were fighting—“

“Superman!” the call came into the medbay, and it was Vixen alerting him. She looked serious, face pulled into a tight pinch. “Batman is demanding to speak to you—to a council of the league leaders, actually.”

“Can’t it wait?” Clark said, irritation feeling like a prickly ball in his chest. Bruce was slowing it all down, whether he realized it or not.

“I would guess not,” Vixen said, in that tone that said, ‘He sounded like you really shouldn’t piss him off.’ Her eyes darted over to Tim, and a look of sympathy was there. She walked over to him, saying, “Hey. You get better, okay?”

Tim gave a thumbs up, given that nodding was painful.

Clark sighed, and flew towards the meeting room—he’d just have to get this over with as quickly as possible, then he could actually deal with the problem. 

Tim should be the focus here, not Bruce’s wounded ego.

He found there was a video conference going on—sort of. Some of the founding members were there, some were on screens.

Batman was on a screen.

And he definitely didn’t look happy.

“What’s going on?” Clark asked, sinking into his seat. Wonder Woman, Flash, and Green Lantern (John Stewart, the founding GL) were present in person. The rest were on their screens.

“It’s a meeting about the status of Red Robin,” came Wonder Woman’s voice, as she sat there as solidly as a statue. Like she was waiting to hear both sides.

Of course, that was hardly a surprise. Clark glanced toward Bruce’s screen, and refrained from sighing. “Red Robin has been through trauma unlike he’s been through before, involving Nightwing. It’s only right to cut contact until we know what’s happened.”

“I already know what happened,” Batman said, voice dangerous. “You have no right—“

“I have every duty,” Clark responded. “Until _we all_ are sure Red Robin is safe, and feels safe, we can’t just chuck him back.”

“What are you accusing me of?” Batman demanded.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Superman responded, keeping his tone even.

Bruce’s first concern should be Tim’s safety, security—not what seemed to be his worry about appearances. Clark was trying to hold himself back from that judgment, though, even as he felt it.

“Clark,” Bruce said sternly, and they all knew each other’s identities, so this was not an attack. “You’ve known Dick since he was a child. How can you do this to him?”

And that was it. Clark snapped back, “How can you do this to _Tim_? Do you give a damn about how he feels in all this? Because he’s _terrified_ of Dick, and has repeatedly expressed fear at the very idea of Dick being around. And until I can be sure—“

“Always the self righteous Boy Scout,” Batman sneered, thinly disguised rage on his face. “You know what’s best for everyone, don’t you? Even a boy you barely know. Tim needs to be with his family—“

“Not if family’s the one who hurt him,” Clark snapped back.

“Hold on,” John cut in, the green of his eyes clearly reflecting confusion, “What happened? Do we have any reports?”

“He decided against sending them, because he’s Batman and the rules don’t apply to him,” Clark said, anger seeming to spark in his nerves.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Batman said darkly, “If you don’t return my son—“

“Can we just clear up what happened?” It was Barry who spoke, looking extremely concerned. “I think that will help everyone, and we can settle this peacefully, okay?”

“He wasn’t on a League mission. It’s not your business,” Bruce said coldly. 

“Are you serious, Bruce? We have no right to know why a _child_ in your care was beaten savagely and is terrified of his own brother? If this were any other kid—“ Clark was cut off by Bruce.

“He’s not any other kid, and you know me, and you know Dick. Return my son,” Bruce said, again coldly.

“I won’t do that—not yet,” Clark responded firmly.

“I…really don’t think Dick is, uh, abusing Tim,” Barry put in, “If that’s what you’re suggesting, Clark.”

“So that means we should ignore how he feels?” Diana put in sharply. “If he is afraid, there is a reason. If he has injuries, he got them somewhere.”

She didn’t say, ‘I’m on Superman’s side.’

But she might as well have.

“The reason is mind control,” Bruce said testily, “That’s what happened. Telepaths. I need to treat him.”

“But did Dick beat him?” John Stewart said gravely.

Bruce seemed like he wasn’t going to answer for a moment. Then he said, “Under the influence of mind control.”

Clark was certainly still going to hear Tim’s side. He’d seemed pretty coherent for being on morphine, and he hardly seemed brainwashed. “We’ll hear Tim’s account, Dick’s account, anyone else’s who is relevant. Please send them soon.”

Bruce looked like he might spit bullets, but seemed to remember Clark was impervious to them. “You wouldn’t act this way about Conner,” he said finally, and clicked off.

Clark sighed, and headed for the medbay. He had an account to hear.

He had no idea things were not as settled as they seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Clark is trying to do the right thing here. Probably not going about it the best way.
> 
> He doesn't think there's abuse going on, tbc. Just that he needs to be sure Tim will feel safe. That his emotional needs are taken into account. And that this won't happen again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim remembers what happened all too well.

It was like running in slow motion.

All around him, it was like all sides were crunching in, closing him in. He was reaching, breaths ragged, as the exit was closed off—wasn’t there at all.

Tim let out a sob, but it was like the air had been sucked from his lungs—there was no sound. He could hear his blood beating in his ears.

And there was Dick.

Standing over him, deadly determination, rage, on his face. Not the brother that Tim knew—but at the same time, one he knew that Dick _could_ be.

And he put out a hand, but it was too slow, and Dick knocked it aside, knee pressing with agonizing lightning and burning as he pressed down on Tim’s collarbone, leaning in to hiss, “Where’s Robin?”

Tim was pinned, his whole body hurt, throbbed, thrummed with fear, and he gasped out, “Please, Dick, it’s me, I’m Red Robin, you’re _killing me--_!”

Dick’s thumb was on his eye. His body was cold, shaking, as he felt the pressure increase on his eyeball, a frightened sob unable to make it out of his compressed lungs—

“Tim! Tim, wake up, you’re okay!”

He could hear the heart monitor beeping away as he came awake, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and whole face feeling like a marshmallow. Sticky and unfeeling, somehow. He blinked, realized he was breathing very fast, as Conner looked at him with concern, holding tightly to his hand.

He wanted to start crying again when he tried to move, calmed enough to realize he wasn’t in immediate danger from anyone, but that he was indeed helpless anyway.

Much of his body was casted and heavy. He felt like moving, just moving, was a Herculean task. He managed, at Conner, “I wanna sit up.”

It was just the tip of the iceberg of every feeling going on—wanting to run, to be able to fight, to make his head not feel like cotton, to stop hurting, to not be afraid, to take himself to a safe place of his own and hide away forever. To be able to hold his boyfriend, who looked like he might cry too.

“I know you do, Tim,” Conner said gently, and his hand was soft, somehow, too gentle. And at the same time, almost not enough.

Because Tim wanted to get up and fight at the same time as he wanted to curl up and hide away forever. Neither of which he could do, and that made him start to _actually_ cry.

“Hey, hey, Tim, you’re gonna be okay,” Conner promised, obvious distress on his face, but not to the point that it paralyzed him. His thumb ran along the undamaged part of Tim’s cheek, a soft touch among all the aches and throbbing pain that made it through the painkillers.

He tried to stop, and somewhere back in his mind he remembered that painkillers like this could make it much harder to resist feelings, to not cry, but it didn’t change that he could feel his face flushing up as the tears dripped helplessly down his cheeks. “I love you. I’m sorry,” he apologized, voice coming out a rasp that hurt his throat.

“Oh god, Tim—you don’t have to be sorry, none of this is your fault—I love you, okay? Don’t be sorry,” Conner said, and his voice held that struggling-to-keep-from-breaking tone.

Which only made Tim cry more.

He was stupid. He should have stopped Nightwing. Should have been _able_ to.

Because that was the frightening part of the memory. Because he remembered very clearly.

He’d started out simply countering and trying to reason with Dick, knowing the mind control could let him get seriously hurt without even realizing it, and knowing the higher likelihood of shit like bleeding out or overworking his heart. 

And he’d thought he had it under control. That Dick would surely not use lethal force against him, nothing truly crippling.

But he was wrong. And he’d realized that the moment that Dick demanded where Robin was, in that tone—

Tim gulped quietly, painfully, trying to stop the tears.

He remembered reacting too slowly, too late. Dick got a crippling blow in, when Tim should have been taking it deadly seriously, and that was the end.

There was nothing Tim could do. They were unevenly matched when Dick got that hit in, where they had been at a place where Tim could have taken Dick down had he not held back.

And he’d tried. He’d been reduced to begging, pleading, trying to get the brother who had always been so close to him not to _kill him_ \--

And this was too much to think on. The way he’d completely lost control of the situation due to an error in judgment. Just that easy. One slip up, and he would have been dead, at the hands of his own brother.

“Tim! Look at me, please!”

Conner brought him back to the present, where his boyfriend looked so concerned. So pained.

And Tim had the briefest thought of if he could win should Conner turn on him that way. If his backup plan, dreamt up ages ago on meeting Conner, would even work.

The look in his boyfriend’s eyes, though, brought him back from fearful calculation. He could rely on Conner. He knew this. His boyfriend would never hurt him, had freaked out the few times he’d come close.

Conner was _safe_.

“Hi,” Tim said softly, “I love you.”

“I love you too, babe,” Conner said, very carefully thumbing away his tears and kissing him. “I love you. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

And ordinarily, Tim might bristle at such a declaration. But as Conner seemed to realize, these weren’t ordinary circumstances. He sank into the promise, it seeming to wrap him in a blanket.

“You won’t let him…” Tim couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t bear to say it, because Dick was supposed to be his brother and he felt horrible saying he feared him. That he didn’t want him around. That the blue and black of his costume still flashed behind his eyes in his nightmares.

“I won’t. He isn’t coming within a thousand miles of you, okay? I promise.”

And he should have been upset, he was sure, to be so far away from his favorite brother.

He should love him, not get a fearful thrumming in his chest when he thought of him. Logically, he knew this.

Emotionally, though?

That was the polar opposite.

Conner talked for a while after that, filling him in on team drama since he’d been away on the Bat mission.

He talked about how Bart had collected a souvenir from the last one that had ended up stinking up the headquarters horribly, and Cassie had nearly fought him over it, and it had been very unpleasant in general.

That was about when Tim realized who he _did_ want to see.

“Kon…” he interrupted, which made his boyfriend stop immediately. “Can…can Cassie and Bart come—“

“Yes. Of course. Of course, I’ll let them know—do you need time first?” Conner looked a touch hopeful that Tim wanted to see his friends. Like it was a very good sign.

Maybe it was.

“Yeah. Yeah, soon,” Tim said, seized with a desire to see his closest friends—to know they were normal. To see people who weren’t tainted. He could feel a lump start to form in his throat at the thought. 

Conner seemed to notice, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll go contact them, okay? You stay here and be calm, okay?”

A lot of ‘okay’ lately—but Tim didn’t mind. “Yeah. Thank you. I love you.”

And Conner went to contact them through the League system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! And yeah, his friends coming to see him but the Bats not being allowed? Gonna create a shitstorm, that's for sure.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason gets to watch things on his end, and deal with a bit of the emotional fallout.

Jason could have fucking killed someone.

Of course, the only people to kill were Dick or telepaths, really—and the telepaths technically held more blame, despite Jason’s fury towards Dick.

Fucking moron. Why didn’t he send Tim out of there? Why didn’t he just goddamn think it through? Fucking asswipe didn’t even think for a second, didn’t remember goddamn instructions, nearly fucking killed Tim while the kid begged for him not to.

_Fuck._

If anyone asked Jason’s opinion (which they didn’t), Dick deserved to live with the guilt. At least for a while. Idiot was the one who caused it, let him suffer.

Like Tim did.

He still couldn’t get the screams out of his mind. Jason had heard dying, terrified screams before—and they were etched into his memory. This one was special—Tim, he actually knew. And cared about, okay? Kid never deserved that.

Hadn’t deserved what Jason had done to him either, but Jason had to live with that, so so did Dick.

Jason let up on the bag. His knuckles stung, which was saying a lot after all the scar tissue and callouses and conditioning, and he turned as he heard footsteps. “Hey brat.”

Damian scowled deeply. “Todd.”

“Fine, _Damian_ ,” Jason sighed, able to sort of agree with Damian’s fury. He’d seen the kid throwing projectile weapon after weapon at the targets, til they were beyond shredded. He’d even thrown one just over Dick’s head when the elder had tried to talk to him.

Good for Dami.

“Hey. So, Damian, we get any word from the League about Tim yet?” What wasn’t spoken was that Jason was ready to crawl up the goddamn walls. He didn’t like being in the batcave so long anymore, and the only reason he was staying was to know. And potentially give a statement.

“No. The Superman has decided that he knows what is best and refuses to give us anything until he gets proper statements.”

Jason felt a twitch in his jaw. “It’s been hours. Haven’t they sent in the fucking statements?”

Damian’s mouth pressed into a line. “No. Father feels it is manipulation and politics and he won’t be party to it.” A sympathetic twitch to his mouth followed, as he said, “Grayson is also having difficulty composing one, even though he believes he should send one.”

“Good god, don’t they—“ Jason broke off in a frustrated growl. How the fuck could they delay this? Especially Bruce. “Tell Bruce this isn’t a fucking game, this is _Tim_ , and he’s probably scared out of his mind, goddamnit!”

Damian’s mouth set again into a line. “He is aware. He appears to be trying to get a ‘good’ telepath to prove that Tim is still affected by telepathic interference. I doubt it will work.”

“Why? Cause the League can be total fuckasses or—“

“Because Drake is fearful either way.” Damian said this flatly. His green eyes were on the battered punching bag. “Imagine if Grayson tried to kill you. I would be able to get over it easily, but you or Drake would suffer greatly, familial bonds being what they are.”

The look on his face said he barely knew such a bond, but had seen it in action. His eyes were actually sort of…sad, maybe?

Jason’s eyes darted down to Damian’s torso, where he knew a scar from death still lingered despite his resurrection. Where he had been pierced through with a sword.

Dick had told him that he’d faintly, barely conscious, heard Damian’s plea to his mother not to have him killed. That had to fuck a kid up—Jason knew what resurrection had been like for him, and at least the asshole who killed him was—

He swallowed. “Damian, you want to spar or some shit? I can’t sit still.”

“If it makes you happy,” Damian said, rolling his eyes.

They had the practice weapons out in an instant, and Damian was not as strong as Jason, had a shit ton of disadvantages, being a kid, but he was essentially keeping up.

Jason had a brief moment to wonder if Tim had been afraid when Damian had almost killed him too. He probably never really trusted Damian, but from what he’d heard, he’d tried to reach out to the kid. It was only more recently that they’d reached anywhere near civil.

Then, it was back to making sure the kid didn’t give him a contusion or some shit.

\--

They headed back, sweaty and maybe a little worn out, enough to take the nerves off, to find Bruce at his computer. The screen, enormous, was filled with League visit logs.

Wondergirl and the current Kid Flash were at the top, with some person Jason wasn’t as familiar with clocked in below about fifty minutes before. They had clocked in at about the same time, within a minute, and it was about a half an hour ago.

Bruce’s face was dark, frowning at the screen.

“Aren’t those his buddies?” Jason asked, tilting his head to the side. He was pretty sure those were the two that hung around with Tim and such. Kid had decent friends, he guessed, unlike Jason really had as Robin.

“Yes.” Bruce said this shortly.

“So they went to visit him.” Jason wasn’t one hundred percent sure why Bruce seemed so pissed off. Tim’s friends seemed like appropriate people to visit. 

Of course, he also knew why he was pissed off.

“And we are still denied access,” Damian said, guessing well.

“Yes. All of us.”

“I was already denied access,” Jason pointed out, arms crossed over his chest.

And there was that slightly paranoid look on Bruce’s face as watched the screen, ignoring Jason. It wasn’t full blown psycho, just that constantly suspicious edge that Bruce had.

“They claim that Martian Manhunter is off world and unavailable to check for a telepathic presence. That someone else will do.” Batman’s scowl was still on his face.

“Who?”

“Miss Martian.”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

“Because I don’t trust her to be objective—or avoid prying. She has a… _history._ ” Bruce’s scowl deepened at the screen.

Jason got the feeling Bruce had been arguing for a while with Justice League members. Damian had a flat look on his face, like all of this was ridiculous and they should just leave it alone. Little dude might have a point.

“Bruce, come on, just let them know what happened—“

“Would you take orders from Superman?”

“If I don’t want my head melted, yeah—“

“Not about my son,” Bruce said darkly. “It’s a display of power and I won’t…” He trailed off, looking at the screen more intently.

It appeared that Martian Manhunter had just clocked in. 

Jason let out a small huff of relief. “Well, that solves that.”

He didn’t add, ‘Thank god, because no one needs a super war or whatever’, but it was implied. Damian’s shoulders seemed to relax a little too, though that kid was always tense.

The message was swiftly sent, and Jason thought that was the end of it.

It would be solved, they could go back to relatively normal (with Tim on the mend) and settle back into the way things were. Things weren’t perfect, but it had been better than this.

Jason couldn’t have been more wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about how long it took to post this! It's been a touch crazy lately. I felt the length fit what's in there.
> 
> :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bart visits Tim and hears a shocking revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I've done okay with Bart.

Bart had never seen Tim look so small. 

Of course, stature-wise, Tim had never been all that big, but still, it was way more of a posture thing. Like he was a mirror that had been crunched in on the frame, and it wasn’t really smaller, it just looked smaller and broken.

He was leaning on the side rail of the bed as he regaled Tim with tales of what had gone on in his absence.

“You’re never gonna believe it—Two thousand feet in the air! I felt like I was flying!”

Tim looked like he was trying not to crack up as Cassie amended, “No, Bart, it was like twenty and you were flying because I caught you.”

Bart laughed loudly, the next joke sparking into his head instantly. “In the arms of the angels, right, Cassie?”

Tim laughed a little, made a pained noise, and it looked like his eyes were watering. Bart immediately felt a pang of remorse. 

“Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t trying to—“

“It’s okay. Really, really okay,” Tim assured him, looking weirdly grateful. His eyes were soft, kinda like a sunny side up egg, and he was looking at Bart like he was just absurdly happy that he was here.

“You are on a lot of drugs, aren’t you?” Bart asked, and Cassie elbowed him.

“Yeah,” Tim admitted, but his voice was quieter. He bit his lip, which seemed to have endured a lot of such abuse lately, if the chapping was anything to go on, and murmured, “Yeah, I am. Sorry.”

“Tim, you don’t have to be sorry! Come on, we love you, you dummy,” Cassie said, a roll of her eyes as she shook her head at him. It was affectionate, Bart could tell—he certainly knew Cassie well enough. They were pretty close as a team.

There was some kind of emotion in Tim’s eyes, blue and maybe…scared? Relieved? Pained? Something.

Bart wasn’t always the best at people, he felt. He liked them a lot, but he didn’t always get them. He didn’t quite understand what must be going through Tim’s head now.

Of course, Tim was also a way different thinker than Bart—controlled, strategic, planning. Dwelling. And Bart was just not those things.

“Can we sign your casts? Cause I brought permanent markers,” Bart said, “And I’m going to draw a tiny dragon for you.”

Why a dragon? Bart wasn’t certain, but it just seemed appropriate.

He and Cassie had basic information on what had happened. Not big details, but Dick had almost killed Tim. Under mind control, it sounded like.

Mind control sucked.

Like weird Starro aliens that got stuck on your face—or, hey, what about brain-sucking aliens from—

“Excuse me.”

Speaking of aliens.

Martian Manhunter stood there, solemn look on his face. Tim’s eyes flashed to him in confusion, and it looked almost like fear.

Conner, who had been kind of standing by, grabbed Tim’s hand, rubbing his thumb along the space between the thumb and the forefinger. What was that even called? Bart felt like he should know this. He knew a lot of obscure body part things, like the amygdala and what it did, or the hamulus of the—

“What’s going on?” Conner was the one to say it, Tim’s mouth looking like it was fastened shut.

“Batman has informed us that it is possible you have been affected by telepathic interference. He wants to be sure there is no remaining influence, as he believes this may be contributing to your current state.” Martian Manhunter explained this in that tone of his.

Kinda weirdly inhuman and soft, Bart guessed, but not like a weird old computer voice.

Tim’s eyes had widened. “M-me?” A stutter was not a good sign with Tim. He didn’t typically do that like at all. “Why would I have telepathic—what are you going to do?”

The words were fast, and Bart was pretty sure Tim was scared. Not something he often saw with Tim.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Conner said flatly, and started to stand, reminding Bart of a wolf standing over her cub.

“Please calm down, Conner,” Wonder Woman’s voice came through, solid. Like a brick, but with rounded corners. “J’onn is not going to do anything that Tim doesn’t allow him to do. He only wants to check so we can lay this to rest.”

She stood just behind Martian Manhunter, that firm posture there. One that promised both protection and a fight.

It seemed to soothe Tim, somehow. He swallowed, hard, and said, “Go ahead and check. If that’s all…”

He didn’t finish, instead licking his lips. Watching Martian Manhunter, hand clenching Conner’s.

J’onn nodded, and shut his eyes, concentrating.

It was quiet, Tim’s eyes shut too, Conner holding his hand and Bart trying to keep from vibrating with a need to do something. He wished he could just run away the problem. Or that he could give Tim his accelerated healing temporarily.

An awfully long few moments passed, and Tim let out a choked noise, like someone had poked a bruise by accident—and it was over.

Martian Manhunter blinked a few times, as Conner pressed his forehead to Tim’s and said that he did good.

“Well?” Wonder Woman asked.

His red eyes landed on her, and if Bart could read Martian faces easier, he was sure he would be able to guess what he was thinking. As it was, he couldn’t.

“It…there is nothing.” Martian Manhunter seemed to weigh his words. “There is no telepathic presence that I could sense.”

“Not even a slight one?” Wonder Woman asked, a crease forming between her eyebrows.

“Not even the remnants of one.”

“Why’d he make that noise?” Bart asked or demanded, he wasn’t certain which. He didn’t understand why Tim would make such a noise unless it had something to do with unlocking telepathy or something.

Tim’s eyes were shut still.

“He…” Martian Manhunter seemed to consider very, very slowly. “It was painful for him. But that is his business, and not mine to share.”

Tim was trembling, Bart realized, holding tightly back onto Conner’s hand, and Conner was murmuring boyfriend-y stuff to him.

And Bart thought of a definition he read in one of his books: trauma. Psychiatric injury. Which would be why it hurt—like jabbing a wound while trying to treat somebody.

And he wanted to hug Tim, to assure him it would get better. He very carefully grabbed the thumb of his other hand, trying to reassure. The rest of the hand was mottled with bruising and such. “Hey, we’re gonna keep you safe. That’s what friends are for!”

Tim’s look was relief. Cassie carefully sat on the side of his bed, putting a hand on his knee. “Yeah, we’re here for you. Whatever you need, okay?”

Martian Manhunter was murmuring something to Wonder Woman.

It didn’t matter much to Bart right then, so he didn’t really pay attention. Some mention of Batman and offworld.

But Tim was here, looked like he might cry (he really was on a lot of drugs) and Conner looked relieved beyond belief. Like he wasn’t alone in protecting Tim.

So, when Tim said, in a smaller than usual voice, “Please don’t let them—him, here. Please,” Bart agreed immediately.

He didn’t think of consequences. It wasn’t a thing he did anyway.

All that mattered right now was that Tim felt safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist? So, yeah. It is a complicated thing on Tim's part. We might go back into his head in a bit, in all honesty.
> 
> Cause PTSD is fun, as I know.
> 
> And his reasoning for none of the batfam coming will be shown later on.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian tries to deal with his guilt.

Damian was angry.

He wasn’t certain who he was angry at yet—Grayson, Drake, Father, Todd, Superman—but he knew he had reason to be angry.

The whole situation should have been handled very differently.

Drake should have fought back better.

Grayson should have been wiser with the telepathy blockers—and more prudent with their use. And more able to fight the telepaths.

Todd should have run faster.

Father should have been there to stop it.

Superman should let Drake be with his family.

And Damian himself...shouldn’t have brushed off the call for help.

He’d thought, at first, Drake was merely exaggerating. He didn’t sound as though he was panicking, he didn’t sound like Grayson would try to kill him. And Damian was closer, so Drake had called him.

Damian had told him to wait a few minutes. He had important work to do, and he doubted the situation was as dire as Drake claimed.

He hadn’t had fear in his voice.

It wasn’t fair.

Damian couldn’t have known.

He _should have._

And that left him angry, wanting to destroy but knowing things had already been destroyed. That Drake had nearly been killed, that Grayson wouldn’t wipe the sad, agonized expression off his face, and that Damian had _failed._

That a wedge was now driven between Superman and Father.

Todd was the only one he could stand.

At least he was appropriately furious about the whole thing, an easy emotion to be in tandem with.

“Fuck, what now?” Todd demanded, as Father, the Batman, angrily slammed his fists onto his desk.

“They claim there’s no telepathic presence, and that Martian Manhunter stopped by to do the check. And now he is gone again, back into space.”

Father’s voice was thick with suspicion, and Damian knew he was strangely attached to Drake. Hence, this upset him, and perhaps clouded his judgment.

“I thought you said Marvin was on the other side of the galaxy or some shit?” Todd said incredulously, though he didn’t move from where he was leaning against the railing.

‘Marvin’ seemed to mean Martian Manhunter for some unfathomable reason. Perhaps both beginning with ‘Mar.’ People chose stupider reasons for nicknames. At least ‘Dami’ made a small amount of sense, it being a shortening of his actual name. Marvin was longer than J’onn.

“Yes, he was very far away,” Bruce said. “It’s not impossible for him to get back that fast, but it’s still highly convenient for them—and he didn’t even say a word to me. To prove he was there, that it was him who checked for telepathic presences.”

Damian watched. Father was right, in the sense that it could be a ploy. It would be a wise one if their goal was to hold on to Drake for a very long time. Why they would was a little beyond Damian, but they did seem fond of him.

Todd moved away from railing, and said, “Come on, B, if they were into child rescue, they’d’a taken Tim before he barely got to be Robin. I mean, I did die, they had to have their misgivings.”

Damian flinched at that, not liking the reminder. Todd had died, of course, he’d known that for a long time, but it reminded him of his own death—the phantom pain ghosting through his abdomen, and he had to stop his hand from covering the scar.

Todd might say it flippantly, but it wasn’t so easy for the rest of them.

His father looked ill at ease as well. “There were murmurings,” he admitted, turning back to the screen.

“Okay, but they’d take Damian too. I mean, he’s even more of a child than Tim.”

“I’m more mature than Drake is,” Damian put in. The looks made him want to hide, a little bit.

“Not the time, brat,” Todd said sharply.

Damian glared, but could feel his father’s deeply disapproving look, and so said nothing. He wanted to punch Todd, though, or perhaps worse.

A punch was almost nothing, after all.

And Damian was angry again, uncertain as to why. He wanted to destroy things, but Grayson had always said destruction was not going to make him feel better—Grayson had just destroyed Drake, though.

Grayson didn’t feel better. He felt far worse, it seemed.

And so Damian threw a knife at a target, listening to the satisfying thud.

It was a wonderful sound, the thunk of a knife hitting its mark on the target. He loved it. 

It didn’t sound the same in people.

Todd was talking again. “B, come on, it’s not a giant conspiracy theory, just send the goddamn files. Tim’s gotta be freaking out, and frankly, I’d be suspicious of you too.”

Father growled, stalking away from the computer. His fists were clenched, and he probably wanted to tear something apart like Damian. Perhaps Superman. Perhaps Todd.

But it wouldn’t be Damian. Damian was sure of that, because no one needed to dwell on his ignoring Drake’s call.

It was a small matter.

Clearly not the cause.

Clearly not with a huge effect.

And Damian went to find Alfred, his cat, and not watch Todd and Father have it out.

So, he found the cat. 

Alfred was a delightful cat, no ulterior motives beyond food and petting and comfort. He enjoyed cuddling in Damian’s lap, and since he was an animal, it was clearly all right. Damian petted his head, enjoying the lump of warmth curled in his lap.

He almost talked to Alfred, but he knew that animals couldn’t really understand human words of any language. At least, not in a sense that could help.

Certain animals were said to be able to recognize words or tones, but it was very different from humans.

Humans would probably be worse to talk to, though. They would be angry, they would use it. For what purpose, Damian couldn’t say, and that made staying quiet preferable.

Alfred was purring as he petted him.

Titus came over at that point, and flopped his large dog head onto Damian’s shoulder, breathing in his ear happily.

“You shall have your turn,” Damian informed him, patting his snout.

It wasn’t really Damian’s fault. Drake should have specified better. Should have somehow made it clear how urgent and real the call for help was.

How could Damian have known?

The words were in Damian’s memory clearly:

‘Robin to Sub-Floor 3, Room E, immediately. Telepathic protection compromised, antidote needed. Top priority.’

And he’d presumed Drake was bossing him around. Was adding the supposed urgency just to make him do it faster, for power reasons. Because the telepaths weren’t even supposed to be in range of those two, and Damian was busy fighting a pair of them—twins, he thought, but that wasn’t important.

Titus licked the side of Damian’s face, snuffling for a turn being petted.

And so Damian petted his head, sighing.

Drake was professional. He should have expected it, shouldn’t have expected rookie panic or some such. Should have known--

But it wasn’t his fault.

He wasn’t the one who almost killed Drake. And he wasn’t the one whose comm got cut off—that was Todd.

The imbecile had let that get broken in the fight, but not his telepathic blocker.

“Damian?”

Grayson was not far away, looking horrible. He appeared exhausted, and his eyes were red rimmed. He was clearly still in the clothes he’d been commanded to change into upon his return, and his hair was messed up.

He still looked more aesthetically pleasing than most people would in his situation, but that was typical for Grayson.

“What?” Damian said it, trying not to put biting feeling behind it.

Grayson sighed, and sat, a good couple of meters away from Damian. “How are you doing?”

Damian couldn’t help how incredulous he felt. How was _he_ doing? He wasn’t the one who almost killed Drake. He had no reason to be upset, and he didn’t even like Drake, so there was little reason to ask him how he was doing.

“My needs at this time are sufficiently met,” Damian said stiffly, petting Alfred’s head.

“Dami, I know this isn’t easy on anyone, but I want to make sure you’re doing okay,” Grayson said, as gently as if Damian were a baby kitten or a child.

And the exhaustion colored his words anyhow.

“I told you how I’m doing,” Damian returned. He felt a weird clench in his chest. He couldn’t talk to Grayson. He couldn’t tell anyone, because they would hate him. They would see him as wanting Drake to die, again, and he wasn’t like that anymore, and _it wasn’t fair_ \--

“Damian, do you want to talk?” Grayson’s eyes were on his face.

Damian wiped at his smarting eyes, feeling how warm his face was. “I said I was doing adequately. Go away.”

Grayson let out a long sigh. Perhaps longer than he intended. But he stood, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Let me know if you do want to talk. Barbara and I got a chance to talk, and...it helped. I know it’s not as big for you, maybe, but...”

And his voice seemed to choke off a little. “At least he’s alive. At least we know that.”

No thanks to either of them, Damian thought.

“And I guess it’s thanks to your quick thinking. Bruce’ll never say it, but thanks for calling Big Blue. I think it’s...it was worth it, whatever happens.”

And Damian suddenly couldn’t swallow, like his throat was blocked by a small apple. 

It was thanks to him that Drake was alive—except that earlier action would have probably prevented the near-death beating. 

And he couldn’t deny it to himself anymore, even as Grayson quietly left:

His inaction was as damning as Grayson’s action.

And he wasn’t under the influence of a telepath.

“I’m not bad,” he murmured to Titus, burying his face in his neck.

It didn’t matter at that moment that Titus, being an animal, couldn’t understand. It probably wasn’t true anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian's kinda wrong about his culpability here--yeah, he should have responded, but he really couldn't know it would lead to that. 
> 
> And poor kiddo. :(
> 
> I almost forgot to update this. Got re-inspired today! And I have finally seen Batman v Superman, and I enjoyed it, even with its issues. I loved the philosophical side of it, and good lord, Ben Affleck as Batman is the best.
> 
> I will definitely go to any future Batman films with him in them. BF still thinks Burt Ward or whatever was the best Batman, but I disagree.
> 
> Plus, totally different genres.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed the chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassie watches over Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about not updating so long! Life has been a little crazy.

Cassie was on board with Tim and what he wanted. Good god, he was totally scared, and she’d _never_ seen him quite like that.

Perching on the end of his bed while he slept, eyelids moving a little at times and some of his fingers twitching, she watched. She liked to think he felt secure with her there, even though it was just her. Kon had desperately needed a break, he’d been there for hours, and he needed to rest and use the bathroom and all that.

Bart was off doing things he probably though would be awesome for an injured person. Cassie wasn’t always certain with Bart, but she did know he had good intentions.

At least she could say that much of him, unlike some of Tim’s ‘family.’

Okay, so he was adopted and they were his family, right, as far as she knew, but still. Batman was layers upon layers of motives and plans and shit, and Nightwing…not so much, but still. She didn’t know him that well.

Red Hood? Or the current Robin? Who had ousted Tim and tormented him and _tried to kill him?_ Oh, they both had. That was right.

She glanced over at the form of Tim in the bed, and realized that that made a big thing.

The fact that Nightwing had tried to kill Tim.

_All_ of his so called brothers had tried to kill him now. And that? It made her angry and hurt on his behalf. She could feel the blood get hot beneath her skin, her eyes ache.

_Poor Tim._

She grasped his foot gently, avoiding the broken toes taped together. She just couldn’t imagine what he was going through, in some ways. She’d had her family issues at times, and she kind of got it—kind of.

No one had outright tried to kill her in her family, but there had been drama, including her mother keeping her real father’s identity from her. Zeus was kind of a dick, but it had still hurt a lot.

And Tim’s foot was not as warm as it should be in her hand, in all honesty. That made her kind of mad, or sad, she couldn’t quite separate the emotions right now. She wanted to make him feel better, fix it, but she knew how impossible just charging in and fixing something like that was.

Fuck Tim’s family.

She kind of tried to retract the thought in her head, but it was there. She had anger over the way he’d been treated, hurt over the years. She hated that they had tried to kill him, that they excused it, that Tim thought he had to excuse it, that he was terrified right now of his own family. No one should be that scared of their own family.

And she knew Batman was amazing. Was supposed to be a pillar of the League and helped the world and did so many good things she admired him for—

But she really, decidedly did not admire what he had done with Tim.

And that was hard to reconcile.

That was about when Tim started to move in bed, the heart rate monitor picking up, and she moved to soothe him.

His words were incoherent, half awake muttering—sounded almost pleading. She gently put her hands on the sides on his face, avoiding the bruises and broken nose, and said, “Tim, it’s okay, it’s me, it’s Cassie. Come on, you’re okay.”

His eyes blinked open, watery and confused but clearing as he focused on her face. He took a moment to seem to register or decide that, yes, this was safe, and he was okay. “Cassie…”

He murmured her name like a relief. Like it wasn’t a bad thing, and in fact, a good one. A sign that he was safe.

She rubbed her thumbs across his cheeks a moment, smiling at him. "Yeah, it's me. You're okay."

He looked a little confused at that, and Cassie took her hands off of his face, saying softly, "Do you have enough morphine? Or too much? Cause it seems like you're a little not all here, just saying."

He blinked a couple of times, and she knew they'd given him a higher dose since the mind reading deal. He'd been on edge, tense, and clearly in pain. Also, Martian Manhunter had informed Wonder Woman and the doctor on duty that Tim's pain was greater than he claimed it was, and he was suffering.

Cassie wasn't sure if he'd meant actual physical pain, or if the emotional pain he sensed was really high.

It would be like Tim to hide either.

"'m okay," Tim murmured, eyes looking down at his knees. His lips pressed together tightly, and Cassie realized he wasn't looking at her on purpose.

"Tim? What's wrong?" When he was silent, she said, almost threateningly, "You know Wonder Woman would totally let me use her lasso, right?"

Tim let out a small laugh at that, like he hadn't meant to. His blue eyes turned on her, and she realized he was near crying. "I just...they're my _family._ And...I'm scared."

That was a big one for Tim to admit, and Cassie had no doubt the morphine helped. And she kind of wished Kon was here to remind Tim he didn't only have Batman and his brood, that he had his boyfriend, his friends, team-mates, and people who cared about him--

But Kon wasn't here. So Cassie said, "Tim, it's okay to be scared. That's really scary, what happened--"

" _No._ " Tim said this emphatically enough that it surprised Cassie. 

He didn't elaborate, so Cassie tried to draw it out. "It's not okay to be scared? It wasn't scary?"

His eyes seemed to search hers, looking for some kind of understanding. He didn't seem to find it, because he just looked away. "'s nothing."

"That really didn't look like nothing, Tim," Cassie responded, frowning at him. 

Because goddamnit, no one could help him with his problems if they didn't know about them. As often happened with Tim, honestly. They didn't know his dad died for longer than it should have been hidden. They didn't know when he quit being Robin. They had to find out afterwards about so many things, and it really just was practically a deathwish on his part.

Tim's jaw tightened, then loosened to a soft huff of pain. "You wouldn't know."

"Okay, the enigmatic hero act stops here," Cassie said. "Tell me what you mean. I can't know if you don't tell me."

Tim's eyes went unsure, and he took a moment, then started talking quietly. "It's not you. It's not. It just...I only have them. I have one. One family."

His words seemed to stumble a little, like it was difficult to express. Cassie thought it might not just be the morphine.

"One. So, if I...I can't, um, if I'm not enough. If I...I can't fight next to them. Because..." And his jaw seemed to tighten there, not letting the words out. Like he physically couldn't say them. And he started crying at that, unable to explain, it seemed.

Cassie wasn't sure what precisely he was saying. He sounded afraid of being rejected, maybe, but there was more. "Tim, if they don't want you, all of us would be glad to have you. We are glad to have you. Okay? People love you--Kon, me, Bart--"

He just cried. Like he couldn't stop it and was embarrassed. He almost started shaking his head, but the cast and pain stopped him. 

So Cassie tucked closer onto the bed, and gave the closest approximation of a hug she could give in that moment. She didn't want to hurt him more, after all.

He calmed down, seemingly having used up most of his energy, and slowly drifted off again.

And Cassie was left to wonder what precisely he meant. Unsettled at seeing Tim cry so much in such a short time period, at seeing him this messed up, she had to hope it could be straightened out.

Kon stood behind her suddenly. "He was talking about his family?"

"Yeah. He said something about being scared, and that he only had one family, and if he couldn't fight next to them because...and then he didn't finish what he was saying." She looked up at Kon.

Kon took in a deep breath through his nose. "He's got every right to be scared. He almost died. He would have died. And I know Tim...he just doesn't get that. He's scared and he can't...he can't deal with it. I've never seen him this bad, ever."

Cassie nodded. "What do you think Martian Manhunter saw?"

Kon was quiet. "Tim will tell us, in his own time. We have to wait. All I know is, however long he wants Nightwing away, or any of the Bats away, that's how long I'll keep them away."

Cassie had to agree with the sentiment. Anyone with a heart would.

At least, that was her opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I feel this chapter isn't perfect, but with Tim, it is really hard to express the feelings he has right now. In essence, he has a psychiatric injury, but in a normal way. Not like a telepath hurt him. And he's not good at sharing his feelings as it is, and when he's as terrified and feeling as vulnerable as he is...I dunno.
> 
> I guess I'm trying to figure out how to portray someone with what is essentially PTSD. Which, not everyone gets one from a trauma, and logically he knows Dick didn't choose to do that, but...I don't know. Mind control is tricky shit, and I feel like he wouldn't be immune just cause he knows Dick was being controlled.
> 
> And I hope I wrote Cassie okay! I only really read her a lot in Young Justice when I was younger.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. Kon's about to get extremely protective, misunderstandings are about to happen, and shit's gonna go down. :)
> 
> Good times!
> 
> (Why did I write another story? I...I don't know. DX)


End file.
